


In This Lonely Place

by plumeria47



Category: Whyborne and Griffin - Jordan L. Hawk
Genre: M/M, Present Tense, Yuletide 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5271536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/pseuds/plumeria47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Griffin contemplates his feelings and his fears after his first night with Whyborne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Lonely Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nabielka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/gifts).



> All lines of dialect are quoted directly from _Widdershins_ by Jordan L. Hawk and are not my own. The title comes from Sarah McLachlan's song [Fear](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/sarahmclachlan/fear.html). Many thanks to Eris_historia for rescuing a stranger with her helpful beta. Happy Yuletide, SlashMyDreams! I hope you like this.

I can tell that it's early, that dawn has only recently lightened the gray clouds hovering close, barely illuminating the heavy snowflakes that are still falling. I haven't needed to milk cows in years, but my old habit of waking early still crops up now and then. Or perhaps it's the fact that I'm not alone in my bed. I've spent plenty of nights in the company of other men – and, occasionally, women – but there's something special about Whyborne. 

I must confess, I didn't initially think so. When I first took the case from Mr. Rice, I felt it necessary to get some initial information on potential key players; Whyborne was one of those. I would lean against a lamppost in my Irish workman's getup or some other charade, pretend to read the newspaper, and watch him hurry off to work each morning and home each night. He was meticulous in his habits and his appearance, save for that charmingly unruly hair of his. He kept to himself, and never seemed interested in interacting with other townsfolk. Initially I thought perhaps it was snobbery, given his upper-class roots; however, the way he would hunch slightly over his armloads of books as if he didn't want to be noticed, plus interviews with some of his colleagues, led me to believe, instead, that he was simply shy. 

I did suspect early on that he might favor other men, given reports that he never showed so much as the slightest improper interest in the women who worked at the museum. Now as I lie on my side and watch Whyborne breathe, his bare chest gently rising and falling under the rumpled sheets, I am ashamed to think I once considered luring him to bed under false pretenses; that I would exploit his desires in order to gain more information for the benefit of the case. How could I ever have thought that a man like Whyborne could be manipulated in such a way? Surely, his powerful family would have desired him to take up the railway business, or at least to pursue some other mighty career. The fact that he had earned a degree far in advance of what might be needed for his father's business, that he worked in relative anonymity as a museum linguist and lived on his own in a nondescript apartment spoke of a personal drive and determination to go his own way. No, a man so well educated and independent could not be lured into bed merely to satisfy his physical urges. 

And then I met him, that day at the museum when our introductory handshake caused him to lose his grip on his books. Such a puzzle he was – confident enough to diverge from his family's expectations, yet so unconvinced of his own merits beyond his professional sphere. Lean and handsome and wonderfully tall, with no apparent awareness of any of it. He was, as I told him, a challenge – and not merely a sexual one, even though I saw what I believed to be a spark of interest in his gaze every time our eyes caught, or I touched him in some way. The darkening of his pupils as I laid a silencing finger across his lips nearly distracted me from the danger we had been in, and I would have had to be completely ignorant not to notice the way he reacted when my backside inadvertently pressed against him there in the alley. The need to know him better – for my own interests, and not for the benefit of the case – began to claw at me: what else might lie beneath his reserved exterior?

I still do not know nearly as much about Whyborne as I would like to. But he has surprised me many times already, usually in positive ways. His willingness to help, despite his lack of detective experience, has been very pleasant, indeed – even more so as he does not pretend any boastful swagger to cover up fear, as many other men might. I owe my life to him several times over by now for his quick thinking, even though the idea of his using spells makes me uncomfortable. That he was a cardsharp just about blew me away; I should have known by then not to underestimate him. And then there was the way he took away my terrors the night at the warehouse. He had faced monsters he had previously not known existed, and rather than dissolving into the ravings of an apparent lunatic as I had done, he had treated them as the brilliant and rational academic I know he is. He was convinced that surely even monsters and magic must obey a set of predictable rules, as any science must, and that we need simply discover what those rules were. It was then that I found, to my surprise, I had lost my heart completely over to him. 

It was not an entirely comfortable realization. Although I was the one who had set out to pursue him initially, and although I have enjoyed every opportunity that has brought us together, I am constantly aware how far beneath him I will always be. He was raised in a house with servants and opulence, whereas I considered myself fortunate to be adopted by a simple Kansas couple on a simple Kansas farm. He has been educated as high as a man can go, and all I was ever taught was to read, write and do sums well enough to get by. His impeccable manners and bearing have been bred into him, something that I had to study and learn and imitate in a desperate attempt to create a life for myself in a big city where nobody knew of my past.

That Ival – as I have privately thought of him for some days now – chose me last night, breaking down the walls that have apparently shielded his passion all his life, is amazing to me even now. Although I was the one who had leaned in close, Ival was the one who closed the final distance, initiating the kiss. When he later confessed it had been his very first kiss, I was in awe at the honor and burden he had laid at my feet. I wanted him to know pleasure, to give and to receive it without fear. I wanted whatever he had dreamt of, for surely he had, to live up to reality. 

My hand gently brushes his exposed chest, tracing down to his abdomen beneath the covers, and I can't help but smile. Despite the judicious use of a damp washcloth last night, some slight stickiness remains, evidence of our passion. My cock twitches briefly, remembering, and for a moment I'm tempted to rouse Ival with a kiss – or more – to see if he might be interested in a repeat performance. But my smile fades as I remember the facts that had so charmed me only moments ago. If Ival was being honest, and I have no reason to suspect he wasn't, this was his first time in _anyone's_ bed, much less another man's. He has obviously worked hard to contain his desires, for surely he could have satisfied them with someone long ago had he wished to. What if he wakes and regrets his actions, tumbling into bed before marriage – and with a man, no less? What if last night destroys the friendship I have already come to cherish? I do not think I could bear it, or, at least, not if I were to still be naked and in bed with him, with evidence of my continued desire plain to see. No, if he is to let me down, I will need armor – if not around my heart, then around my body.

I slip from the sheets, careful not to let in the icy air, and dress quickly. I had not had the energy last night to retrieve any of our clothing from the floor once we had spent ourselves – the washcloth was all I could manage – and my trousers and shirt are in desperate need of proper pressing. I set them aside for the laundress to take care of and retrieve fresh items from my wardrobe. And since Ival – Whyborne – is still sleeping soundly, I even risk a quick shave at the washstand in my bedroom.

Thus fortified, I sit down on the edge of my bed, one hand draped gently over the silhouette of his leg, and wait for him to rouse. 

I don't have long to wait. He must have been nearly ready to wake anyway, as I have only been sitting a few minutes when his eyes flutter open. "Good morning," I say with a smile, trying to surreptitiously gauge his reaction to waking in my bed. "I was just going down to make breakfast. Would you like something?" I list the few options presently available in my cupboards.

"Breakfast sounds wonderful," he says, but there's a hint of nervousness audible in his voice, and his smile looks forced. 

I remove my hand from his leg. Perhaps he is, even now, regretting his actions, decisions made under the influence of adrenaline and lust. Perhaps he is wishing he had kept his previous discipline, or feels I pushed too hard. Perhaps he is merely wishing for someone who had more to offer him than just the physical.

I try to keep my rapidly spiraling thoughts hidden, but I'm afraid my fears are all but painted across my face as I ask, "Is everything all right?" I try to tell myself that it's best to know now before any more damage is done; I'm not sure I believe it.

But his response is so unpretentious, even gently witty – as if I had merely asked about the objective state of the universe rather than his personal feelings – all I can do is throw back my head and laugh in relief and amazement. Just when I think that I'm finally starting to understand him, he is still able to surprise me utterly, and in so pleasant a fashion.

And even more surprising – my reaction seems to have alerted him to the real question I was asking, and he wastes no time reassuring me that he is content with what transpired between us.

My heart is light at his words, and an eager jolt snaps through my body as I remember his moans and cries. I return my hand to his knee. "I'm very glad to hear it," I say, unable to stop grinning. "Perhaps you would consent to a repeat performance?"

To my delight, Ival's body answers for him; no words are necessary to demonstrate how eager he indeed is for a future encounter. A charming blush floods his cheeks at his cock's blatant response, but, aside from grinning still further – I am just as helpless at hiding my pleasure as his cock is – I pretend not to notice as I hand him his rumpled clothing and watch him dress for the day. Thankfully, the weather is dreadful enough that nobody will be leaving the house today, so it matters not one whit how abused Whyborne's suit looks. 

We spend a pleasant and productive day together, reviewing the case. Although the snow stops long before bedtime, he accepts my invitation to stay another night. It's wonderful to have him in my bed again, both before and during sleep, to feel his warm skin pressed against mine.

It's only after he leaves for work the next morning that doubt begins to settle in on me again. Away from me, and despite his assurances yesterday, will he regret the shift in our relationship? Worse yet – if he continues to sleep here, what will happen if I don't have a tranquil night? It has been weeks since my last fit, but I know they haven't stopped. I should have confessed my affliction and my past right away, perhaps the night we discovered the monsters at the warehouse. I should have warned him that Elliott had me committed to a madhouse after Glenn's death, and that perhaps I am still mad after all; when I'm in the grip of those horrific visions, it certainly feels like it. I curl on one side under sheets grown cool without Whyborne's body heat and hug my arms to myself. Surely, a man as collected and rational as Whyborne could only be repulsed by my lack of control over these attacks. He would certainly have noted my shameful fear of underground places when we explored that basement two nights ago. What grown man has such ridiculous fears? Perhaps it would hurt less if he had terminated our friendship before it became something more. The problem is, I am already completely in love with him, body, mind and spirit, a feeling that only seems to grow with each passing day. To have him reject me now might break me completely.

I could wallow in self-pity all day, I suppose, but there are things I need to do for the case, and it might help to speak to Whyborne – if he is still speaking to me at all – and Dr. Putnam about them. I throw off the covers and dress as quickly as possible in the freezing air. While attempting to tidy my hair in the looking glass, I consider my options: I could admit my past madness in the privacy of Whyborne's office before we approach Dr. Putnam. Whyborne might immediately terminate his involvement in the case once he hears, but perhaps it would be best to get it over with at once, rather like quickly ripping off a bandage that has stuck to a wound. I have quite a lot of information already and should be able to soldier on alone if necessary. Yes, that's what I'll do – I'll approach Whyborne's office first, and tell him everything.

But the mere sight of him coming down the corridor toward Miss Parkhurst's desk destroys any courage I might have felt. Seeing him brings joy to my soul, especially as I catch a glimpse of his own happiness beneath that proper exterior. It feels miraculous that he is still so pleased to see me, and I find I cannot bear to voluntarily give him reason to leave. I need him, and am willing to do whatever it takes to extend my time with him as long as possible. As I follow him through the museum and up the stairs in pursuit of whatever he wants to show me, I am fully aware that I am playing with fire far worse than he is. Sooner or later he will find out about my shame and that will be the end of things. The end of me. But that does not appear to be today, and for each day, each hour I can spend with him, I am selfishly grateful beyond words.

God help me.


End file.
